


there's more to life than pretty things

by concertconfetti



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Boundry Setting, Character Study, Closeted Character, Dresses, Experimental Style, Gender Dysphoria, I mean in the sense that Geralt has never thought about his gender ever, M/M, Makeup, Nonbinary Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, POV Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Touch-Starved Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Trans Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Trans Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-17
Updated: 2021-02-17
Packaged: 2021-03-13 06:01:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29521944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/concertconfetti/pseuds/concertconfetti
Summary: "I'm a monster," he murmurs because that's how he feels. ven the smallest parts of Geralt feel like they're shaking apart, morphing and changing, mutating his form even now that the toxins have worked their way out of his bloodstream. Gone are the softer parts of his body, the boyish features that felt comfortable and real to him, leaving behind sharp angles, lean muscles, and a permanent scowl.Geralt is not one to think through what makes him comfortable. Jaskier, of course, forces the issues sometimes. This is a story about gender, realizing what makes you happy, and getting support from your queerplatonic partner.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 19
Kudos: 81
Collections: GRB2020 Team Works





	there's more to life than pretty things

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MaliciousVegetarian](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaliciousVegetarian/gifts).



> Written for the beautiful artwork drawn by [MaliciousVegetarian]()! The artwork is embedded below and I encourage you to check out their post on tumblr! 
> 
> Additional content warnings for low self-esteem and gender journies.

Everything starts when Geralt is returned to the dorms after the Grasses. He's sitting on Eskel's cot, holding his knees close to his chest and shaking, watching the painfully slow rise and fall of Gweld's breathing, his chest barely moving with the effort. The moonlight is too bright, Eskel's hand in his hair pulls at a scalp made too tight from illness and poisoning, and everything feels _wrong._

"I'm a monster," he murmurs, because that's how he _feels_ \- his once beautiful auburn locks are shocked through now with hair whiter than snow, his skin is paler than death, especially next to the still warm ochre of Eskel's hands (and arms and face, unchanged save for the molten amber irises in place of the cool blue-grey they once were). 

"Not to me," Eskel says softly, his breath puffing gently against Geralt's neck. Geralt lets out a harsh laugh and turns away from Eskel. 

Even the smallest parts of Geralt feel like they're shaking apart, morphing and changing, mutating his form even now that the toxins have worked their way out of his bloodstream. Gone are the softer parts of his body, the boyish features that felt comfortable and real to him, leaving behind sharp angles, lean muscles, and a permanent scowl. 

Weeks later, when it's clear his hair will never grow in thick and wild and red ever again, he sheers the remaining auburn locks from his head… as well as everything else. When Gweld hands him a mirror after cleaning up the cut, Geralt hurls it against a wall. 

* * *

Renfri lays dead in the mud and dust of Blaviken, cut down by a monster of a man. She's not the first woman he's killed, and he's certain she won't be the last. 

At the end of the day, after the bruises have healed twice over and the blood's been removed from his sword, Geralt lays out his bedroll, sits down, and pulls his knees to his chest. His silver sword lays at the foot of the bedroll and he considers its sharp edges. Not for the first time, certainly not for the last time. 

* * *

Jaskier is… well. Jaskier just is. He's a ray of sunshine, the loud belting of birds in the forest, brash and honest and flirtatious in a way Geralt's never seen before. He freely calls Geralt wonderful, beautiful, ~~handsome~~ , honest, and kind. 

At first, it makes Geralt's hackles stand on end the way Jaskier will just _touch_ him like he's worthy of touch. (No one has simply _touched_ him since he killed Gweld. Even Eskel hesitates, asks even before their perfunctory hug at the end of the season. Renfri… Renfri was manipulating him with her touch, her kind and poisonous words; perhaps, if he were different, untainted by Witcher mutagens, she would have meant everything she said. But that was wishful thinking.) 

"Why do you do that?" Geralt hisses at Jaskier from the lukewarm water. Jaskier stills, towel gripped in his hands. 

"Do what?" He asks absently, keeping his eyes firmly glued on his hands and the rotation of the towel. 

"Touch me," Geralt says, though all the anger drained from his voice as he looked down at his knees. Jaskier falls silent and for a moment Geralt thinks this is the moment, the thing that finally knocks the bard to his senses. He'll leave and Geralt will fall back into the same loneliness of the Path. Instead, a splash of water hits him in the face. His head snaps up and he snarls; Jaskier's face is twisted with laughter. 

"Sorry, you just had the worst look on your face," Jaskier says as he calms down, breath escaping him in soft chuckles. "Do you… not like it when I touch you? Because if it makes you uncomfortable, dear, I can absolutely keep my hands to myself. It might take some training, but I can do it - my younger sister doesn't like hugs, you see, and I am, of course, a fan but she told me once after a row how they made her feels trapped and, through determination -" 

"Jaskier," Geralt says and Jaskier snaps out of whatever memory he was about to explore. The bard smiles gently at him. 

"Point is, I can stop. If you like," he offers. Geralt isn't sure what to do with that, really - no one ever _offered_ to stop touching him. They just… stopped, and Geralt convinced himself he didn't deserve that sort of comfort. 

"I… I'm not sure," Geralt murmurs, "I don't know if I am comfortable with it. Touching. No one _just_ touches me." 

The emphasis, that little word - _just_ \- changes something in Jaskier's expression. "Right," he says to himself, though Geralt hears it clear as day. "I'll try not to touch you for a few days - maybe a week! Yes, yes, a week, and you can tell me at the end of the week how it feels? I know you're not one for words, dear, but I'd hate to think I'm making you truly uncomfortable." 

Geralt exhales harshly through his nose. "Fine," he bites out, "let me finish my bath, please." Jaskier smiles and it stirs _something_ in Geralt, something he can't name. 

"Of course, my dear," the bard says, "anything for you." 

* * *

Geralt realizes several things over the next few weeks: 

  1. He doesn't _hate_ touch. It's not his favorite, and he certainly doesn't enjoy it when strangers clap his shoulder, or pat his thigh, or stroke his arm, or any of the other things folk (usually humans, if he's being honest) do to elicit sympathy. 
  2. He _misses_ Jaskier's touch. 
    1. They're traveling the Path between the last crossroads town to the next - Jaskier wanders up ahead whilst playing his lute, picking out a new tune away from Geralt's sensitive ears. Geralt follows behind, leading Roach; there's no hurry. They have plenty of provisions and coin to spare, thanks to the bard's work in the last few towns. Jaskier hasn't touched Geralt in five days. 
    2. Geralt's skin _itches_ and he can still trace where Jaskier last touched his neck clearly in his mind. When they stop to set up camp, Geralt finds himself sitting with his knees pulled up to his chest. 
    3. "You can touch me," he says and the words are so quiet he's certain Jaskier doesn't hear him. The bard doesn't react, at least not outwardly, and Geralt lets it go.
    4. Before bed, Jaskier takes Geralt's hand and squeezes it once. 
  3. If it's not touch, there must be something else. Jaskier asked Geralt to tell him if something made him uncomfortable, so he dedicates endless hours between hunts to cataloging his body, the sensations that most bother him, the things that cause him stress. 
  4. He hates crowds, that's not new - they're loud, and the press of folk around him make him feel cornered. Noise is often too much and overwhelms all his other senses. If he takes Cat and walks out into the daylight, it triggers meteoric migraines. Certain fabrics chafe, which is why he handmakes his tunics and brais out of the soft cotton Vesemir trades for in the summers. None of this, really is new to him. 
  5. What is new is the too-tight feeling of his body around him, like it was made a size too small. The way he hates how he can see his ribs when he bathes, hates the lithe, desperate strength to his muscles. 
    1. When they arrive at the next town, Geralt catches himself in the mirror. He's in a brothel, and the lady accompanying him has stepped out to find more kohl for her eyes. Geralt stares at himself for a long while, a scream welling in his chest. 
    2. The mirror is turned backwards when the lady returns and she looks at Geralt sadly. 
    3. "We aren't all blessed with a face that matches our souls," she says toward the end of their time together, and she presses something into his hands. When he uncurls his fingers, he finds a stick of kohl and soft, red lip paint. 
    4. The makeup finds its way to the bottom of Geralt's bag, and he tries not to think about it (too much). 
  6. Part of him resents the easy way Jaskier has with men and women and those in-between; he gives his affections freely and openly and doesn't hesitate when it comes to romantic trysts. He wishes he could express himself so easily.



* * *

It's Yennefer who discovers the kohl and the lip paint among Geralt's possessions. She worries her lip when he enters his room at The Alchemist in Oxenfurt. 

"Yennefer," he says warily. They haven't seen each other in nearly a year, and it's unlike her to seek him out this close to winter (or, for that matter, in Jaskier's chief haunt). He's wrung out, prepared to leave in the morning (no doubt later than he'd like since he's certain Jaskier will insist on breakfast) and, while he looks forward to seeing his brothers again, he's staring down a winter of a certain kind of loneliness. The kind that settles in his gut every time Jaskier leaves, nowadays. "What can I -" 

"Geralt, are you seeing someone?" Yennefer asks hastily, her words catching him completely off guard. "It's none of my business, perhaps, but I found these among your belongings." She gestures to the kohl and lip paint on the table in front of her and Geralt blanches. He's not certain what he's afraid of, exactly - he and Yennefer agreed long ago that their arrangement was not romantic. Destiny tied them together in other ways, and their bond was extremely strong, regardless. Perhaps…

"I'm not seeing anyone." He starts with that and watches the tension ease out of Yennefer's shoulders. "I would have told you. Those -" he points to the side table as he moves to set his swords down near the bed "- were given to me by a kind lady in a small brothel. She…" he pauses. The words die in his throat as he sits down heavily on the bed. How does he explain this? Certainly, he could just tell the story of that night, but that wouldn't explain why he'd kept them - the incident happened months ago now. 

Yennefer looks at him with the sort of soft expression he sees so rarely these days - an understanding, soul-deep, that he's not sure he's comfortable with. "It's difficult to talk about, I know," she offers. Geralt's brows pull together in confusion. 

"What do you mean?" 

"Why don't you tell me what she told you," Yennefer says. She likely knows, read it in his surface thoughts while he considered his options, but, like Jaskier, she has a nasty habit of making Geralt _talk_.

"She… I… I turned her mirror away from… from me," Geralt says, staring at his empty hands (too big, unwieldy and rough when he wanted them to be soft). "She gave these to me. Because… because we aren't all blessed with faces that match our souls." Geralt scowls. Stupid, that he thought… maybe if he could learn to apply the kohl he'd like his face again. 

Yennefer hums and comes to crouch in front of Geralt, her long fingers caressing his knee. "I know how that feels," she says softly, and then, "would you like me to teach you how to apply the kohl?" 

"Yes," Geralt says before he can convince himself it's a bad idea. Yennefer smiles and brushes the hair out of Geralt's face (he's let it grow longer than usual). 

"Alright, it takes a steady hand," she says, "look up for me, will you? There we are." Yennefer presses the pencil to Geralt's waterline, waits a moment for him to get used to the sensation, and then carefully swipes the kohl along his lower lid. "You know of ascension, I've told you some of my experiences," Yennefer murmurs as she goes. "Not all of it, of course, some of my childhood is… too painful to revisit. But I know what it is like to look in a mirror and hate what you see. I was a disabled and masculine youth, and I was lucky Tissaia made exceptions for me."

Geralt makes a noise in the back of his throat, doing his best to stay still. Yennefer finishes up under his eyes; with a wave of her hand, a mirror frees itself from her bag and she holds it up for him. 

"I started small," she says, carefully monitoring Geralt's expression. It doesn't change, not at first, but she sees a slight quiver in his lip. "Geralt?" 

He shakes his head, unsure of how he feels. All he can think of is his mother's face. 

"It's alright," Yennefer says, sending the mirror and kohl back to the table. "It's alright. I'll flag someone down for dinner and we can talk about other matters, yes?" 

* * *

Geralt manages to line his own eyes in the morning before seeing Jaskier for breakfast. He stares at his own face in the mirror and, for the first time, doesn't have to fight the urge to turn away. It's not _better_ , not really, but it's close enough. 

Jaskier's face lights up when he opens the door. 

"Geralt, you look _lovely,_ " he says with a grin that makes Geralt's chest feel tight. 

* * *

"You never touch me anymore," Geralt mutters while he and Eskel are working on the south wall of the keep. Eskel hums and continues mixing mortar. 

"I didn't think you wanted me to," he says, "After Gweld passed, you pulled away. Figured I'd give you space." 

"I thought you were disgusted by me." 

This causes Eskel to stop. He drops the bag of lime and tackles Geralt to the ground. The two scramble, an automatic response born of growing up together in close quarters, and, when the dust settles, Geralt has Eskel pinned in the dirt, and the both of them are laughing. Eskel grins. 

"Told you when you came back from the grasses," he says, smoothing a hand over Geralt's shoulder, "you're not a monster. I could never find you disgusting."

Geraly frowns. "I find me disgusting," he says, sounding about fifty-years younger. "I used to be… I don't know. Softer." 

"No reason you can't soften things up," Eskel muses. "Like you do with the kohl liner." Geralt shoots him a look and Eskel barks out a laugh. "Known you for over eighty years, wolf, I noticed something'd changed as soon as you came back. Why don't you talk this over with that fancy bard of yours? Or better yet, that sorceress you insist on bedding?" 

Geralt snags a handful of snow, the wet, early-season kind they get this early in the winter and mashes it into Eskel's face. By the time they get done with the wall, both of them are covered in lime, mud, and all manner of small plant life. 

* * *

"Jaskier," Geralt says, a nervous look settling on his features. It's spring once again, and he and Jaskier are sat in a warm tavern at the Kaedweni border, enjoying a first meal before heading out on the path. "I… do you know people whose minds and bodies don't match?" 

Jaskier blinks and considers the question for a moment. "Plenty," he says finally, "there's Yennefer, for one, and another lovely elven mage I met once in Daevon. A number of my fellows at Oxenfurt often waxed poetic about dopplers and changing gender at whim. Is that what you mean?" 

Geralt is so swept up in the idea that he isn't alone that, for a moment, he doesn't respond. It's only after Jaskier calls his name once or twice that he clears his throat and nods resolutely. "I think… I think I'm like that," he says, his voice pitched low so only Jaskier can hear him. He feels like he's shaking apart - part of him is still convinced this will be the final push Jaskier needs to leave Geralt's side for good. "I've been thinking about it. Since you asked me to think about the… the touching and… yes," he finishes lamely, resolutely staring at Jaskier's forehead in an attempt to maintain eye contact. Vesemir would be proud.

Jaskier _beams_. "Oh, Geralt, that's… well that's so excellent to know," Jaskier says, clapping his hands together, "do you need me to call you something different? Oh, perhaps I should change the songs - or maybe only some of them? Create some mystique around the White Wolf - hero regardless of form!" 

"No," Geralt snaps and Jaskier pulls his hands out from their grand, wild gesture. "No, sorry, this is very new. To me. Please don't…" 

"Ah, yes," Jaskier says, "of course, Geralt, mums the word if you prefer it." He lays a hand atop of Geralt's and looks dreadfully serious. "You know I love you, no matter what, yes?" 

Geralt's heart skips a beat, and he doesn't know how to do anything but nod. 

* * *

"You said you loved me," Geralt says, about a month later when he and Jaskier are staring up at the stars in the middle of nowhere. "How did you mean it?" 

"What?" Jaskier says, a slight lilt to his voice that only creeps in when he's nervous. The bard swallows. "H-how ever you'll let me, I suppose." 

Geralt reaches over in the dark and takes Jaskier's hand. He's not sure how he wants to be loved, but he is sure he wants to figure it out with Jaskier. 

* * *

Stories like this don't end nicely - there is no one telling, one true self. But let me leave you with this. There is a Witcher with long, silver-moon hair, braided to keep it out of his face. He's been dragged along to a party held at this estate or that one, and he's in a simple, black gown. Beside him, his partner, the bard Jaskier, proudly shows off a royal blue gown of the same fashion - the party, itself, is themed around genderswapping, and Jaskier is thriving. He always thrives.

Even still, Geralt has never been happier. They get so few opportunities on the road to indulge in a bit of euphoria, and Geralt is awash with the giddy feeling that accompanies it. 

He takes Jaskier's hand and lets himself admire the pretty things, just this once.

**Author's Note:**

> title from Five Foot Three by Flannel Graph


End file.
